


red, for love triumphant

by karasunotsubasa



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (not a birthday themed fic but a birthday fic anyway), Canon Compliant, Happy Birthday Victor Nikiforov, Language of Flowers, M/M, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 20:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17168867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karasunotsubasa/pseuds/karasunotsubasa
Summary: Everything happens as we know it. Everything stays the same.Except one little detail: ever since the Junior Worlds, every time he wins, Victor gets a single rose in his fanmail.





	red, for love triumphant

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fic I wrote waaaay back in 2017 and it's been sitting in my wip folder for ages, so I decided to actually get it out here on vitya's birthday ^u^)b I wanted to do it sooner but, well, things have been pretty busy for me the past few months... I'm glad I managed to post it now tho! you can see it's an old fic just by the past tense narration but honestly, I couldn't edit it out, it just felt right for this? rdcuyhb I don't know, but I hope you still enjoy it!
> 
> now, without further ado, here is a piece for day 3 of [vityaweek 2018](https://vityaweek.tumblr.com/): happy birthday victor!! ♥️♥️

 

 

 

 

 

A single rose, red like the setting sun that bleeds though the branches of a tree outside a window of a loveless man's house, by all means should look lonely. Cheap. Insignificant.

But it didn't.

Almost like a halo, there was a glow to it, a fragile beauty in the satin skin of its petals. Each of them weaved carefully with the next, the simplest of nature's designs seamlessly bound into one whole: royal and proud.

It was soft, it was sweet. A flower of respect. Of love and courage; courage that Yuuri has been given and wanted to thank for, with all his heart.

He softly fingered the edge of a small card the lady at the flower shop had given him, but no matter how long he thought about it, there were simply no words to express everything he wanted to say on that small piece of paper. The tip of the pen he's kept open has long since dried and with a small sigh Yuuri capped it shut, before giving up.   

Maybe this will be enough.

Maybe next time he will find his words.

Maybe...

The next day instead of the rose lying across his desk, there was a receipt for international shipping of a single flower, and a big grin on Yuuri's face that matched the cost perfectly.

 

 

 

 

"These came for you," Yakov said.

Letters in a box. Presents in another. Flowers covering the rest of the space on Yakov's mahogany table.

Victor's gaze was curious as he took in the mess: the bouquets of daisies and lilies and tulips, perfectly matched, bright and fresh, and startling. They brimmed with life, in the colours and the air, but Victor's skin crawled in revulsion from the moment he spotted them. Hopes, dreams, expectations, deceit, greed – they were all laid out before him, painted across the crusting of gold that has been sprayed on the delicate flower heads: the ugly hidden beneath a facade of pretty.

Amongst all of it, however, on the very top of the mountain of shimmery wrapping paper and fake compliments, rested a single rose. Almost shy against the rich, overflowing compositions, it stood out like a sore thumb. Like a beggar at a royal ball: poor, sincere, raw.

It was that rawness that spoke to Victor far more than any of the other flowers, so he snatched the rose from the pile, fingers holding the stem carefully between the tiny thorns, and smiled at Yakov.

"You can give away the rest."

Honesty has always been the only thing he ever wanted.

 

 

 

 

 

Roses were expensive. Shipping was even more so.

But it didn't matter, even if Yuuri struggled. Even if was hard, even if he had to save up for months, even if it seemed meaningless to everyone else.

Nationals. Two Grand Prix events. Grand Prix Final. Europeans. The Worlds.

Six roses, year by year, paid from a measly allowance of a growing boy.

Yuuri couldn't give it up, not since that first time and the joy it brought him to show his love and appreciation for the man who inspired him.

So he didn't give up.

For the hope Victor Nikiforov had put in his heart, for the passion his skating ignited in his veins, for the effortless grace Yuuri strived to match till his feet were blistered and his body bruised – he didn't give up. He never wanted to give up.

 

 

 

 

Victory was rose-shaped.

It smelled of ice, crisp and cold, and it tingled inside Victor's nose almost making him sneeze.

It tasted of dew, refreshing and sweet, and of an early morning where few people were out and the sun was only just peeking through the clouds to light up the world.

It was a feeling of delight and bliss, caressing him across the face: soft like petals, but strong at the same time, enough to make his eyes water and his vision blur.

Red.

A red rose.

Beautiful and red and honest.

Caring.

It made him try harder. Win. Surprise. Hope.

All in red.

 

 

 

 

The first time Yuuri checked the symbolic meaning of a rose he was fifteen and Yuuko brought him to the school library after she'd seen him with one of the roses at the post office. Yuuri squeaked as soon as he read the paragraph and shut the book loudly, getting an evil eye from the librarian on duty. He flushed from more than just the scene he'd caused, but he couldn't really help it.

Yuuko said nothing while he opened up the book again with trembling fingers. And she said nothing either when he took in the words he'd just read with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Romantic love. Longing. Desire.

The blush stung high on his cheeks. Absently, Yuuri rubbed on one of them with the heel of his hand before he pushed his glasses up onto his head and hid his face in the arms he'd folded on the table. Muffling it by pushing his lips into his arm, Yuuri groaned.

And Yuuko, the good friend she was, laughed at him so hard that the annoyed librarian chased them off within seconds.

 

 

 

 

Pink.

It was pink. The rose.

Victor set it carefully in the glass vase he got especially for the roses. All of the ones before, petals dried up and iron-pressed, were kept safely in a scrapbook – each with a date, his programs, the songs and the pictures of a smiling Victor waving at the crowds, the podium picture, his medals; the golds and darks and shimmers and roses, red and old, _ethereal_ and _eternal_.

But now... now the rose was pink.

No matter how hard Victor stared at it, he couldn't figure out the reason why, but change was heavy in the air, simmering in the low heat of an early April spring day when the rose showed up in Yakov's office so soon after the Worlds. Victor just couldn't decide if it was a good or a bad thing.

 

 

 

 

It was on a rainy autumn day when Yuuri tied a card to the fragile stem of a light pink rose, careful not to jostle the petals more than necessary. The flower was beautiful, more than any of the ones before and Yuuri knew this was the right time.

So, in squiggly, small letters of an alphabet he was so unused to, he wrote a single sentence, reading it over and over and over again, until the words blurred and his breath caught in his throat. Until his thoughts caught along with it in a loop of _stupid, stupid, stu_ –

The crack of thunder startled him out of it, like a voice from an unknown deity telling him to stop.

Do it. Just do it. You have the courage, the will, you can do it.

_Like he did for you._

Shakily, Yuuri closed the card and put a thread of white yarn through the small hole, tying it to the stem. Not too tight, not to lose.

A breath like a sob escaped his mouth.

Relief, Yuuri realized, wasn't as good a feeling as they made it out to be. Or maybe, maybe it was just yet another of the things he was simply bad at.

 

 

 

 

Eyes alight with surprise, a smile curled on his lips, curious, excited, happy. Victor held the card between his fingers like it was the most precious of treasures.

It was.

The petals of the rose were almost see-through, the skin delicate and white, creamy and pale like Victor's own. The petals darkened the closer to the centre of the flower, colour smudged into it as if an afterthought of the artist who gave breath and light to a true masterpiece.  

His heart yammered in his chest, thud after thud against his ribs, pulsing of blood in his veins and ringing in his ears, as Victor flipped the card open. He expected– No, he didn't expect anything. The card itself was a surprise – a delightful one – but the message inside came as another one.

 

_You make the ice the most beautiful place in the world._

 

Like on the rose, a blush painted across Victor's cheeks, vibrant against his pale skin. People always told him he was handsome, he was a god among mortals, a sight to feast eyes upon on and off the ice. Empty compliments that Victor smiled through, thanked for, and gave back as easily as they came with as little real emotion.

This, however, this was not one of those times.

It sounded the same. It _looked_ the same. Just words on paper that he'd seen countless of times before.

But it was different.

Because Victor wanted it to be different.

And so it was. _Special._

 

 

 

 

After the first time, it was easier. After the fourth time it was almost a habit. After a tenth...

 

_It always amazes me how expressive your skating is. It's like I can feel the emotion deep in my heart, even though I've never experienced it. Does that make any sense?_

 

There was never an answer, but Yuuri didn't expect one. He was content with just letting Victor know how much he meant to him, how Yuuri cherished each of his performances, how much courage and strength to fight he inspired in him.

His young heart matured looking at Victor Nikiforov's step sequences: the sharp turns and graceful slides. It grew up on the reckless jumps and stunning costumes. It hardened watching the ice that Victor has engraved his mark on with his skating. And all the while, it kept wishing – wishing, upon the ice shavings under the blades of his skates, wishing that some day... one day he would be able to compete against him as an equal, a skater good enough to capture the greatness with the tips of his fingers and hold onto it with his head held high.

 

 

 

 

Victor's smile was soft, gentle, tender, so very much unlike the smiles he gave in front of cameras, in front of other people. Those smiles were never real, after all. This one, however... this one was more than that.

Victor put the red rose to his lips – _it was red again!_ – letting the petals whisper against them.

_Thank you_ , said the note.

And nothing else.

Just a simple thank you that made Victor's heart clench tightly. Tears welled in his eyes without his consent, but he couldn't honestly fight this. Not when his nose tickled with the sweet scent of the flower – light and joyful, and so warm that he couldn't find the will to pull away from it. Like a hug, a sweet, gentle gesture of love, it wrapped itself around his heart as if it was never going to let him go.

Not that Victor wanted it to.

"No," Victor whispered softly to the rose, smiling into its red petals. "Thank _you_."

 

 

 

 

Phichit gave him a funny look when he first saw Yuuri buy a single rose and hold it preciously close to his chest the whole way back to the dorm. He looked on with a bemused tilt of his head as Yuuri wrote up a card and tied it securely to the flower, practiced ease in the move of his fingers, betraying the countless of times he'd done it before.

Peeking over Yuuri's shoulder while he was busy addressing the shipping form, realization finally dawned on Phichit. Yuuri could recognize it in the lilt of the tiny "Ah," that escaped Phichit's mouth. He needn't have said more than that, and he didn't, because it already sounded like " _O f  c o u r s e  it's for Victor, what was I expecting from his number one fan?_ "

The tips of Yuuri's ears dipped red, but the curl of his lips remained unchanged: happy and hopeful, and sweet.

 

 

 

 

It was orange now.

Victor's eyebrows pulled together in a small frown.

Why was it orange? Why not red? Why not pink? In fact, why pink, and orange, at all?

He never liked not knowing things, ever since he was a child. Curious like a cat, Victor couldn't leave it to chance, couldn't make himself forget something he looked forward to so much. So, instead, he sat the rose down on his coffee table and pulled out his phone. Looking up the meaning of different colours of roses took him less than ten seconds and, upon further inspection, he found what he was looking for:

Orange roses – desire, enthusiasm.

The blush spilled over his cheeks before he even fully comprehended what he was reading. To think that someone thought of him this way... It wasn't an entirely unpleasant thought, but coming from a stranger it did seem pretty weird. Did they always have this in mind? Were the red roses not what Victor thought of them? Was this just a desperate attempt by some psycho to woo him over and get in his bed?

Before he could freak out, the picture next to the description made Victor's breath ease.

"Oh!"

Eyes glancing up at the rose in the vase, he blinked. His rose wasn't orange. It was _peach_. And peach roses meant–

He scrolled down.

–appreciation, sincerity, gratitude.

The card said, " _You're my biggest inspiration_."

Like charmed, Victor's thoughts cleared away. This, that sweet meaning and the sweet note, have been the things that have kept him looking forward to the next one. Just the very idea that the person behind those could be someone creepy... Victor couldn't honestly believe that.

He smiled to himself then, a slightly helpless, affectionate smile that had no business being on his face, but _it was_. And it was, because the feelings were quite mutual. Victor hadn't meant to let them grow, hadn't meant to get attached, but _he had._ His own expectations and hopes have blossomed like the roses that always greeted him after a competition until Victor no longer knew what to do with them anymore.

And yet, he knew one thing: he never wanted them to stop.

 

 

 

 

The picture was pretty. They always were.

Victor had a natural talent of capturing the right angle for the light to hit all the right places, to turn the beautiful into breathless, effortless grace in the subtle glow. He took pictures of everything and nothing, but even the most random of those had always been of such charm that Yuuri couldn't resist liking them.

Makkachin, Victor, Victor, gorgeous, stunning Victor, Makkachin, a new venue to skate at, another gold medal, precious few friends and less practiced smiles...

...and finally: a peach rose fat in full bloom.

Bathed in golden light of the setting sun, casting shadows on the wall behind it, it was the focus of the picture. Unfiltered or not, it looked far more unreal than the one Yuuri had sent only a few days before. Like a dream, like a memory that didn't belong to him and was implanted into his brain without his knowledge or permission, he knew it was his rose. It _had_ to be.

It was.

The caption made it clear.

_And you're mine_ , it said.

A red, sparkly heart followed by a line of tags that froze and numbed Yuuri's fingers which held onto his phone with far more strength than needed – #thankyou #inspirational #roses #languageofflowers

Yuuri's heart trembled as his cheeks brightened with a flush. Even his breathing stopped, short of leaving him lightheaded, but he hardly noticed. Fear, happiness, expectation, hope, everything meshed together in a mixture that couldn't have worked, couldn't mean anything good, but he didn't want to think on it then.

Victor knew what the roses meant. And he liked them.

Maybe, possibly, hopefully, _he liked them_.

Yuuri dropped his phone and screamed into his hands, because Victor Nikiforov liked his roses and he could now die a happy man. _Wow_.

 

 

 

 

It came with no warning, spinning him deeper into the numbness.

He got complacent.

He took it for granted.

Oh, he was _so spoiled_.

Victor pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard enough to build enough pressure to see a world of kaleidoscopic shapes move beneath his eyelids in a pattern that made more sense than his own feelings have for weeks. His chest was heavy, the burden of the hollow gold pressed him into the ground, burdened him instead of giving him wings and the only thing that could... was gone.

There was no rose this time.

He won. He exceeded expectations yet again.

He remembered the gasps from the audience when he pushed his aching, tired body into another quad. It felt great, freeing, like maybe he could still keep doing this.

There was no rose.

Could he...?

Swallowing the bitterness, fighting off the fear of being predictable, of being nothing but a symbol, a statue with no feelings, an example for the young to live up to, Victor pushed himself off the wall in an empty corridor of the rink. He let his hands fall from his face. Took a deep breath.

Felt himself crack, and choked.

_There was no rose._

He forced on a smile, and when cameras caught sight of him, he was perfect. Wasn't he always?

 

 

 

 

He should be giddy, should be excited. Yuuri knew that.

He was painfully aware of all the things he should be, of how he should smile at the photographers, talk to the journalists, joke around and socialize with his fellow competitors. He should skate a good program, should land himself maybe in the third place if he hoped for a comeback in his long program. Should keep his focus sharp as a piece of a broken mirror, pointy and with rough edges, ready to cut across everything standing in his way to victory.

It was just too bad that Yuuri had never been one to do what he should.

He had locked himself in his hotel room, the chilly Sochi air biting into his cold, cold skin, making him shiver in dread. A shallow breath he took got stuck in his throat like a piece of an apple that was more than he could chew.

Stupid, stupid, _worthless_. You will never be enough. You will never win. You will never reach _him_.

Yuuri bit the inside of his cheek bloody.

Copper on his tongue, ice in his veins and fear, ugly, swirling, mocking fear in his gut – Yuuri dry heaved.

 

 

 

 

"You're staring," Chris said, a smile curled around the corner of his mouth. "See something you like?"

Victor replied with a smirk of his own, butting his hip against Chris' when he pressed into his side.

"He's a fan of mine. I'm just a bit curious."

Chris hummed. "Want me to introduce you?"

Victor looked at the man currently in third place right after him and Chris, a surprise no one had counted on. Yuuri Katsuki's face was still flushed from skating, eyes wild with exhilaration bordering on euphoria, something Victor knew all too well.

"No," he decided. "I wouldn't want to break his focus."

Yuuri zipped up his jacket, took his bag and slung it over his shoulder, leaving alongside his coach without a glance back. Even as he walked, Victor could see the same thing that captured his attention on the ice – the subtle shift of hips, the clear rhythm in his steps, as if he was moving to an inaudible tune, to a hum his body could hear in the music of the universe.

His spins were beautiful, graceful, fast, technically perfect, Victor has just seen them. His step sequences, as well. Those were sharp, hard cut diamonds that sent the ice shavings flying in a cloud of sparkles, so strong and... simply breathtaking. His jumps were weaker, too weak for all his strength, Victor had noticed, but his focus shifted as he watched another after another after another, and came to realize that the way Yuuri took into air, the way his body curved, the way he landed with a flourish... It was a subtle thing, but he knew instantly – Yuuri was a fan.

But he was so much more than just that. The emotion, the fluid stream of feelings coming from Yuuri as he skated, clear and bright and vivid, like life itself, was something that was inherently his. No one could copy it, though everyone should aspire to reach that level of expression.

Victor knew he himself did.

And yet, as if to contrast all his technique and presentation skills, there was a shy charm to the weight of Yuuri's shoulders. Something seemingly insignificant, but which made the polished program come off as rough and uneven. Almost like a surface of a yet cut gemstone, waiting for the jeweller to bring its shine to the fullest with blinding colour and life.

"Suit yourself then," Chris said, but Victor had already forgotten what they were talking about. 

 

 

 

 

He crashed, and burned, and fell down to earth – ruined dreams and tattered dress, like a Cinderella that never should've hoped in the first place, because real world is never kind enough to just give.

It takes, and it takes, until there is nothing else for it to take, and you're left with nothing among your ruined dignity. And then, it will take that, too.

 

 

 

 

Caught in a whirlwind of Yuuri Katsuki, Victor felt like a butterfly sprouting wings for the first time. Like a break of dawn, rising up from a night of slumber and exhaustion, free and clear and whole.

Victor won gold.

Yuuri came last.

So they danced.

Heart beating out of his chest, face flushed and sweaty, _Victor lived_.

His hands were clumsy, for the first time in forever, as they rested on Yuuri whose body was pressed so close Victor could feel the curve of his thighs, could smell the alcohol in his breath, could see the glow in his eyes, so bright and beautiful. Victor's own eyes reflected it, bright and eager, drinking and getting drunk off the feeling of careless happiness that thrummed inside their veins, joining them as one for just this night.

Awake. Alive. Alert.

"Victor," Yuuri called, the 'r' rolling off his tongue in a way that sent a shiver down Victor's spine. "Be my coach!"

Breathless. Blushing. Bewitched.

Blind for everything else, just this once.

 

 

 

 

"A commemorative photo?" Victor asked. "Sure!"

Yuuri craved. Yuuri ached. Yuuri wanted.

Instead, he turned away, hauling his luggage after him, without even a word to his idol – to the man he admired with his every breath, to the man that gave him so much and whom Yuuri couldn't give back enough.

He'd failed. Himself, his coach, his family, his country... and Victor. He'd failed them all.

Disappointment thick like the smog clouded his mind, clogged his lungs and squeezed into his veins, painful and relentless and disgusting, but well-deserved. Heartbeats, slow and hateful, hurt in his chest as if his heart was suddenly full of thorns ripped off all the roses he'd sent to the man he had just made a fool of himself before.

An idiot, a joke, a dime-a-dozen skater who hoped and aimed higher than he would ever be able to climb.

What _was_ he thinking?

What a fool.

What a waste.

 

 

 

 

When a full bouquet of roses came through Yakov's office, Victor was hit with guilt.

_He forgot._

Yuuri made him forget. He made him forget everything, everyone, even himself. Victor had been so swept up into the surprise, the joy, the life that Yuuri breathed into him that nothing else mattered for the night of the Sochi banquet. Nothing mattered the next morning, nothing mattered the next day, until he realized that Yuuri was gone.

Without a word. Without a sign.

Victor was discarded, as he always was, as soon as he wasn't needed. It was laughable how he always hoped, always cradled the small flame of _maybe this time_ , and always ended up at the feet of the stone-hard wall of _never_.

The roses were a pleasant surprise, a ray of hope that made Victor smile despite his aching heart. He might have forgotten about them, but he wasn't forgotten by whoever kept sending them. For once, he wasn't brushed aside when he'd served his purpose. For once he was–

 

_I'm sorry. Goodbye._

 

A bouquet of eleven roses, a website said, assures the recipient that they are truly and deeply loved.

Then why...?

Half blue, half black, the roses stared at Victor as if there was more to it. As if he needed to know more to realize that nothing was as it seemed at first glance.

Blue roses meant unattainable, the impossible, and Victor's heart clenched.

Was it him? Was that how people felt about him? He could see it, the truth locked in the petals dyed in blue – fake, unnatural, pretending to be something they weren't... _just like him_.

Black roses meant death and farewell.

Victor laughed: a dry, unamused sound that felt as hollow to his ears as he felt to himself.

"You can throw these out, too," he told Yakov, dropping the bouquet with the rest of them, and left.

_Goodbye._

A farewell to the broken heart that had no right to be, but was.

 

 

 

_Sento una voce che piange lontano_

_Anche tu, sei stato forse abbandonato?_

 

He'd skated till collapse. Days on end, when nothing else worked, when his blades refused to glide and the toe pick caught on the flat surface, making him stumble over his own feet. The music hurt his ears, drilled into his chest, violent in its soft timbre, painful in its longing.

His heart screamed; it bled, it cried, it tore apart.

He felt so lost, aimlessly moving on the ice, freezing, despairing. Like gloomy clouds on a rainy day, doubts clung to his shoulders, following his each step. Drunk on hesitation, intoxicated with reluctance, Yuuri was drowning in fragility, not truly angry with himself, but disappointed, heartbroken, upset.

 

_Questa storia che senso non ha_

_Svanirà questa notte assieme alle stelle_

_Se potessi vederti dalla speranza nascerà l’eternità_

 

What should he do? What next? What _could_ he do?

The only thing he knew was what he should've done, and he failed to do as much.

Success, glory, expectations. Hopes, dreams, naiveté.

Gone. All gone.

Regret was heavy in his limbs, giving more weight, more struggle when he tried to dance, resisting when he skated, refusing to cooperate when he slept. Tired, resigned, Yuuri caved.

He was going to retire. Give up. It was enough.

 

_Stammi vicino, non te ne andare_

_Ho paura di perderti_

 

His leg gave under the unbalanced weight of the jump he tried and failed at, like so many other things these days. Breath knocked out of his lungs as he slammed his shoulder into the hard ice, Yuuri stayed there on the cold ice. His hands were scraped bloody. He didn't take his gloves with him, but the pain wasn't entirely unwelcome. He deserved it, didn't he?

In the reflection on the ice he could see the overhead lights, bright like his future would never be, and his own washed out face staring back at him. Cold, hard, unfeeling. Tired, broken, pathetic.

This wasn't him. This wasn't right.

He grit his teeth, heaving himself to his feet once more. This wasn't him.

 

_Partiamo insieme_

_Ora sono pronto_

 

 

 

 

Hope was for fools, Victor realized with a pained breath. It only hurt more once it was gone, and gone it would always be. That was just the nature of the universe, which played a cruel game where all of them were disposable pawns.

There were no more roses since the bouquet.

Yuuri never contacted him again.

He was _alone_.

Again.

He would laugh, but his throat was too raw, clogged and tight. He would cry, but his eyes were already dry, with no more tears to give.

Victor won the Worlds. So what?

He won Europeans. Well done, who would've expected it, huh?

Journalists asked: "Victor, what are your plans for next season?"

Who knows? Not me, he thought, and plastered on a fake smile. "I'll have to speak to my coach first, I'll keep you updated."

A wink had the cameras flash again.

Yakov asked: "Any music on your mind yet?"

"Still looking," Victor said. Because he didn't know what he was looking for. Didn't know what he wanted– Oh, no, _he did_. But he would never get it, so why bother?

If Yakov noticed the upset quirk of his brow, he didn't comment on it. He let it be. So Victor did the same.

_Maybe not all is lost yet, mm?_ Chris texted him out of the blue, with a link to a YouTube video.

With a sigh, out of complete boredom, Victor clicked play before replying. There was no music. No outrageous jumps. No quad flip where he put it, no quads at all, jumps reduced to doubles and triples, but–

Victor sat up straighter.

Hope was for fools.

But despite himself, in his foolish heart, _he hoped_.

 

 

 

 

Victor Nikiforov.

His idol.

His coach.

His... friend?

Yuuri poked the whirl of platinum hair, curious, dumbstruck, still in awe that he was able to touch him, talk to him, be next to him without having to feel like a complete failure, like his world was collapsing and he couldn't breathe. It was exhilarating, freeing, a thing of his wildest dreams.

And when Victor whined about his hair thinning out...

How could he be so real, so down to earth, so painfully human and yet at the same time, Victor Nikiforov, the legend, the paragon of skating that everyone looked up to?

Like a sweet song of summer, hope nestled in Yuuri's chest, filling the cavity that once brimmed with despair with new warmth and joy, every day just a little bit more, just a little bit fuller, as they inched closer to their goal.

Could he do it? Could he make Victor proud? He still didn't know.

But one look from Victor, a raised eyebrow or a smile, soft question in those blue eyes and confidence in his shoulders – confidence _in Yuuri's success_ –  and Yuuri knew that he would try. He would try his damn hardest, because Victor wanted him to, and Yuuri... Yuuri wanted it as well.

 

 

 

 

He didn't compete, and there were no roses.

But there was Yuuri.

And he was better than a rose. He grew under the tender care, tightly shut petals opening in the sun of Victor's smile, and it _mattered_. Oh, it mattered so much.

Victor's heart swell, hope buzzing in his veins, stronger and stronger with each day.

The roses, and whoever had sent them, were a lovely inspiration, a dream based on his imagination. A story of fairytales that was never meant to be: one of a lonely prince finding his match by sheer dumb luck. It was brief, it was happy, but not his happily ever after, Victor knew.

But Yuuri... Yuuri was real.

He shied away when Victor pushed, he withdrew when he didn't, leaving Victor starved for contact anyway. But when he offered, he offered himself fully, with no brakes, hands off the handles and breakneck speed ride down a hill.

It made Victor breathless, confused and glad, but not in control.

And that was fine.

For once in his life he was happy to give all control to fate, _to Yuuri_ , to let him guide their movements and allow him the confidence in choosing how to pace this, whatever it was. No chasing around, no pressuring, no asking questions about what's, when's, how's, or why's.

Whatever Yuuri needed, whatever Yuuri wanted, Victor would be there to meet him where he is.

He might not be able to give it, not always, but he would be there. If Yuuri wanted him.

And Victor desperately hoped he will.

 

 

 

 

 

Yuuri didn't expect to win. He didn't expect to beat the Junior Grand Prix champion, _but he did_.

Confidence was fleeting, like warmth that disappears as soon as he steps onto the ice, covered by a mantle of nerves so thick and heavy his shoulders slumped and his spine bent under pressure.

Confidence was not always a good thing. Confidence was what Yuri Plisetsky had, but confidence was not what he needed. And it wasn't what Yuuri needed either.

What he needed was right next to him.

Fingers holding lightly onto his bicep, warm hand squeezing it, and squeezing his heart along with it, too. A warm voice that whispered in his ear, loud and clear, "You did well."

"I'm proud."

"You're good enough."

Flush on his cheeks, Yuuri breathed.

He _was_ good enough. Maybe.

 

 

 

 

Not even once did Victor think back to the scrapbook full of iron-pressed roses of pinks and reds and peaches that stayed back in St. Petersburg. What he had now was more than a dried up flower – it was fresh, and bloomed, and would not crumble into dust for as long as he had any say in it.

And that, that he planned to have a say in for a long, long while. Until death does them part...

 

 

 

 

His nose was still bleeding when they left the kiss and cry. Victor was talking about how reckless and _brilliant_ he was, and Yuuri was grinning under the hand holding up the tissue to tame the incessant bleeding. His cheeks were flushed, from exertion, yes, but also from the way Victor's eyes sparkled as compliments and jabs at the flaws in his program flowed from his mouth.

Yuuri didn't hear him.

His mind was still catching up with the feeling of being off the ice after a soul-bearing performance and Victor's voice was only a hum across his skin, a breath whispered against the back of his neck as they gave an interview Yuuri did not remember even agreeing to.

It was fine.

Yuuri was fine.

Because Victor was there, holding him up when he fell, and Yuuri was just fine with falling.

 

 

 

 

China was when everything fell apart.

And then aligned again, better than before, a mosaic of colour coming together after it was once broken in a masterpiece remade into a God-given gift.

Watching Yuuri's eyes grow with panic, wider and wider still, while his shoulders stiffened and his body wrung itself tight like a wet rag, Victor didn't know what to do. So he did what he thought was right, and _he was wrong_. Painfully, obtusely wrong.

The moment Yuuri started crying, tears welling and rolling down his cheeks in silence at first, mouth set but slowly starting to tremble, until it all bent under the pressure and turned into an ugly, sobbing, mess, Victor was already regretting it dearly. He wanted to take his words back, but it was too late. Yuuri was angry at him. He was hurt, yes, Victor could see it in the twist of his lips, but he was also angry.

And that anger gave him wings.

Victor watched Yuuri soar – jumps flawless, stance relaxed, his step sequences sharp, but flexible in ways Victor hadn't seen before – as if all the tension drained out of him along with the tears he shed over Victor's stupid insensibility.

With batted breath and a full heart, Victor watched the program come to an end. Yuuri's hand reached out to him in a small peace offering that Victor was greedy enough to grab with both of his, and pull, pull until he could close his arms around it safely and keep it pressed to his heart forever.

 

 

 

 

Victor's lips crashed into his and their teeth clacked, but the taste of blood in Yuuri's mouth anchored him to the present, screaming at his giddy brain on endless loop, " _This is real_!" The hand that Victor tucked under his head broke the fall when they landed on the ice after Victor, the dumb, silly, wonderful Victor jumped onto him before Yuuri could even step off the ice.

It must have hurt, knuckles slamming against the hard ice, but Victor was smiling as if nothing better could have ever happened to him. His eyes were bright, glowing, two pools of blurry blue that reflected Yuuri's stunned exhilaration right back at him.

"You're so silly," Yuuri wanted to say.

"What are you doing, stupid?" he wanted to ask.

But when Victor smiled, it all disappeared as if snatched away by a gust of intangible wind.

Victor said, "This was the only thing I could think of to surprise you more than you've surprised me," and Yuuri was rendered speechless, because of course it was.

_Should I just kiss you?_

Victor had asked him that before, and Yuuri had yelled at him.

_Should I just kiss you?_

Yuuri thought to himself, looking up at Victor who was laid bare before him, heart and eyes open, calling onto him to answer, _answer me, please, tell me what to do to reach you_ , and he smiled, eyes crinkling and mouth a gentle curve.

_Should I just kiss you?_

Warmth on his breath, he answered, "Really?"

It clogged his throat with sunlight and summer, a burn so good that the cold, cold ice had melted off his limbs, and when Victor bent his head and returned his smile, his face painfully fond and kind, Yuuri wanted to live.

_Should I just kiss you?_

_Yes. You should._

 

 

 

 

Roses looked at Victor with an accusatory, "You've forgotten about us."

He had.

He didn't regret it one bit, though.

He bought a bouquet of yellow roses, their tips dipped into red, like blood, or rubies, a setting sun of colour locked between his hands as he presented the flowers to Yuuri.

"I'm so proud of you," Victor said, bathing in the tender flush on Yuuri's cheeks. "Let's aim for gold next time."

Yuuri's fingers brushed over Victor's hands when he took the roses, pressing his face into the delicate petals and cradling it to his chest like the most precious of treasures. If he knew the meaning of their colour, he said nothing about it, but it pleased Victor to see them accepted – his feelings, the roses, yellow and red for _falling in love_.

Yuuri's eyes softened. A quiet "Thank you," spilled from his lips, and it was enough.

Enough to hope, enough to dream, enough to live on.

But then Yuuri peered up at him from behind the roses, blush deep and stunning, and he leaned forward with a hand coming up to catch Victor's neck to steady them. Victor moved closer before Yuuri even pulled him in. The flowers got squished between their chests and petals, like cherry blossoms, fell to the ground in a rain of colour, beautiful and red and yellow – a sunset of hearts giving its last glow to the tiny kiss that Yuuri pressed to Victor's cheek.

Enough was not enough.

 

 

 

 

Yuuri thought it was just a spur of the moment thing. Just an expression of joy. That it wouldn't happen again.

He was wrong.

Victor kept on kissing him, again, and again, until Yuuri was struggling for breath, until his chest was tight with expectation, until his heart was swelling so bad that he was afraid it'll burst with want, if Victor didn't stop pressing his soft, soft lips to his.

And he didn't.

On the ice, off the ice.

When his eyes caught Yuuri staring. When Yuuri's hand trembled at his side, too scared to ask. When Yuuri woke up from a daydream, woke up to reality that was no less than what he dreamed.

Victor always asked, "Is this okay?"

Lightheaded, Yuuri laughed, because that was the only thing he could do as his heart squeezed so delightfully in his chest.

"No," he replied, kissing the frown of Victor's brow, and with gentle fingers courageously touching Victor's jaw. "More."

And Victor met him there, as he always did.

 

 

 

 

Moscow was cold. Yuuri's hands were cold, too.

But his smiles, oh, his smiles were outrageously warm.

Victor basked in them, whispering sweet nothings in Russian into Yuuri's chill-bitten ear, and laughing when Yuuri huffed at him and turned his head away until Victor's lips pressed into his cold cheek.

Like never before, Yuuri stepped onto the Russian ice with pride thrumming in his spine, determination set in his shoulders and courage in his eyes that stared straight ahead as he held his head high. Victor's heart trembled as he watched him, and he shivered and craved, and wanted, and ached. And when Yuuri pulled on his tie, demanding attention that Victor could never give anyone else, not with Yuuri there, Victor's decision was made for him.

He was more than happy to give Yuuri it all. His attention, his heart, his very soul.

Yuuri blew him a kiss from the middle of the ice, enrapturing, flawless, and Victor was left breathless where he stood – winded by the whirlpool of emotion that settled in his chest that very first day he saw Yuuri skate in person. Unlike that time, though, this performance was faultless: stunning in its beauty, fluid, and technically perfect.

On his knees, Victor kissed the side of Yuuri's skate, losing himself in the widely blown brown eyes, and then worshipping the way they narrowed at him: soft, warm, pleased.

Victor, the poor, smitten fool he's become, didn't want them to look at him any other way ever again.

 

 

 

 

It's been too long since Yuuri was alone. Victor was gone, on a plane back to Japan, and Yuuri was left there in the cold Moscow winter with no solace, no support, no breath left in his lungs.

He tried to sleep. He tried to stop his mind from spinning. He tried to calm the nerves, the nagging itch at the back of his head that didn't want to go away.

He was fine being alone before. So why wasn't he now? What changed?

It wasn't difficult to guess.

Yuuri pulled up his phone to the picture of Makkachin, which gave way to one of him and Victor as soon as he unlocked it. Their cheeks were pressed together, two matching smiles aware of the camera, but focused more on each other in a way that was obvious to anyone that dared to look past the blinding joy in their eyes.

Pressing the top edge of the phone to his forehead, Yuuri closed his eyes.

Don't cry.

Not yet.

_Not yet._

 

 

 

 

He made it. _He made it._

It wasn't as good as it could've been, but he made it. It didn't matter now, they would figure it out later. There was time.

For now...

Victor just wanted him close again.

 

 

 

 

 

They must have looked ridiculous to the other people, hell, even to himself Yuuri looked like an idiot, but he couldn't stop his feet from moving. Faster, faster, please, just _move out of the way_.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity and more, he crashed into Victor. Arms wound tight around him and Yuuri's own fingers got caught in Victor's fancy coat, but it hardly matter. He was out of breath, out of mind, out of shame – only Victor, that was all he cared about. He smelled like the ocean, felt like the warm beach during the summers, and sighed like the gentle wind that ruffled the waves across the blue expanse of the water. Yuuri held on tighter, drowning himself willingly, even though he knew how to swim.

Victor was saying something about coaching. Yuuri was only half-heartedly listening to the actual words, focused more on the way his voice settled the nerves that crawled over his skin ever since the free skate, the way it soothed all the worries he'd had, the way it promised that everything was going to be okay now that they were together again.

"Take care of me until I retire," Yuuri asked, because Victor was waiting for some kind of reply and it was the only thing Yuuri truly wanted.

Taking Yuuri's hand, and pressing a kiss to his knuckles so gently that Yuuri felt the tears sting in the corners of his eyes, Victor replied over a lovely, heartbreakingly beautiful smile: "That sounds like a marriage proposal."

It could be as well. Yuuri was not ready to let go of him. Not yet. Not ever.

"I wish you'd never retire," the soft whisper made his tears flow free.

Yuuri buried his face in Victor's shoulder, giving way to his feelings, because now he knew... Victor was his home.

 

 

 

 

He never thought he'd get so lucky. Never believed it possible. But when he turned to the side, watching Yuuri play with Makkachin, his heart trembled like it had that one night in Sochi when Yuuri turned his world upside down, dipped him over his arm and smiled at him, brighter than the sun and more blinding and beautiful than any star could ever be.

It took a while.

Agonizing, waiting, hoping, losing himself and his goals, his motivations.

But in the end, if anyone asked, Victor would do it all over again without a breath's hesitation. He would suffer through the withdrawals, he would go back in time and live through the pain of watching Yuuri walk away from him, if only it meant he would get _here_ again.

To this effortless place of mutual feelings that grew stronger with each day.

To this incredible place where he could walk up to Yuuri and rest his hand on his hip, lean in close and press a kiss, quick and easy, to the ticklish spot on Yuuri's neck and receive peals of laughter instead of a squeak and a dismissive push at his chest that hurt deeper than his heart.

To this trusting place where Yuuri sought him out first, comfortable with his touch, safe in his arms, and where he pressed his face into Victor's shoulder without as much as a word out of his mouth; and where Victor knew what he needed, what he should give, what was expected of him in the open, but tense curve of Yuuri's back.

For this, to keep the moment last, Victor would do _anything_.

 

 

 

 

A dark red rose, the colour of rich wine, cut at the head, thorn-less and harmless, was tucked behind his ear, waking him up wrapped in Victor's sheets. Victor's scent clung to his skin, seeped into his pores like poison, but Yuuri welcomed it with a delighted smile curled softly around his lips even as he yawned.

Like a long forgotten dream, Yuuri hazily remembered the roses he'd used to send Victor: all the different colours and notes, the meanings of them known only to him. The longing, the joy, the inspiration, happiness, love, adoration, gratitude...

It was a shame Victor didn't know how much he meant to Yuuri.

Maybe he should tell him, maybe he should–

"Good morning," a whisper of real life chased away his dreams, but reality was sweeter still, and when Yuuri opened his eyes to find Victor there, his hair not perfect, his eyes a little puffy, his jaw covered in subtle fuzz of stubble, Yuuri's heart sung a song of belonging.

"Good morning," he mumbled back, searching for Victor's hand with his and Victor rushed to join them. Fingers laced together, Yuuri sighed in bliss.

One day. One day he'll tell him.

Camera shutter went off, loud in the silence of the early morning.

"You look so beautiful I couldn't help myself," Victor explained at Yuuri's questioning gaze.

_Like you're one to talk_ , Yuuri wanted to reply, but didn't. Instead, he plucked the plump rose from behind his ear and lifted himself up on an elbow to tuck it in Victor's hair. A blush, stark and stunning on pale skin, dusted across the bridge of Victor's nose so fast that Yuuri's blood buzzed in his veins with excitement, waking him up instantly.

"Did you steal it from out back?" Yuuri asked, pushing a stray lock of hair behind Victor's ear, amused at the idea of Victor Nikiforov sneaking through the halls of the sleeping inn to snatch a rose off of one of his mother's bushes.

"I may or may not have done that in a fit of brilliance," Victor replied, which was no reply at all, but the warm light that shone in his eyes told Yuuri all he needed to know.

Affection in his touch and soft radiance in his smile, Yuuri pressed himself up into Victor's lips. The kiss was gentle and slow, a sweet thank you passed between lovers at the dawn of yet another day that they got to spend together, full of happiness, gratitude and love.

And it was everything to Yuuri, everything that could ever matter.

 

 

 

 

"I want you," Yuuri had said.

"Victor, please," he'd asked.

And Victor's hands held him gently, cradled him against his chest as they rocked together on the bed, drowned in each other and the soft noises of the inn.

Skin slick with sweat, sinfully slow slide of his length into Yuuri's soft insides and the squelch of lube; it drove Victor further, even if his conscience told him to cherish it, to worship Yuuri the way he deserved to be worshiped, his body urged him to go _faster, deeper, harder_ , and Yuuri's sighs, his moans and groans that he muffled with his teeth sunk into Victor's shoulder – they only lit Victor on fire, making it impossible to give Yuuri anything else than what he wanted.

And oh, he wanted everything. He was greedy for this, for Victor, but Victor could not say a word against it, because he was just as greedy for him. Whatever Yuuri should want, Victor was ready to give him that, and so much more.

 

 

 

 

He was so lucky. _So lucky._

How did he even get this... this happiness that hummed in his every breath and swell with his every heartbeat? How was it possible that _he_ got to experience this?

He did nothing to deserve this.

He did nothing to deserve Victor.

And Victor deserved so much better than him.

But when Victor smiled, blue eyes alight as something fleeting, fragile sat right there in the crinkles around his eyes, Yuuri took his hand and brought it to his lips, laying a kiss on the thick knuckles like Victor had done at the airport after the Rostelecom Cup, like Victor had done so many times since, like Victor had done every time Yuuri was feeling soft enough to melt, mellow and weak against the feelings throbbing inside him.

Victor deserved so much more than him, but for now this had to be enough.

Because Victor wanted him and, for just a while longer, Yuuri would be selfish enough to keep him.

 

 

 

 

 

Yuuri's eyes shone with that special inner light. Glowing, curious, determined, they took in their surroundings in search for something. What, Victor didn't know, but simply observing Yuuri was enough to fill his heart with untamed expectations.

Because Victor knew that when Yuuri will finally find it, he will be in for a surprise. And he just couldn't wait.

 

 

 

 

Like a flash of lightning, a set of fireworks crackling across his skin, vibrant, loud, demanding attention – the idea came to him as soon as he saw the jewellery shop.

It was silly, it was impulsive. It was so unlike him to give into something like this without further thinking. Without analyzing pros and cons, overanalyzing his feelings, Victor's feelings, and fretting, and panicking, and thinking of what others would say.

But somehow, once the thought lodged itself in the crevasses of Yuuri's mind, he couldn't think of anything else.

Nothing else would do.

Nothing else was _good enough._

Ignoring the sharp panic clutching him by the heart, the shallowness of his breath and the darkness creeping slowly over his thoughts as doubts started to consume him, Yuuri let his feet move.  

 

 

 

 

The air in Barcelona wasn't cold. But even if it was, Victor didn't notice.

The choir before the Sagrada Familia was singing. A carol, probably, he thought. But even if it was, Victor didn't notice which one.

The hand that pulled him along was tightly locked around his, maybe from nerves, maybe from the cold, maybe from something else. But whatever it was, Victor didn't notice any of the pain.

He _did_ notice when they stopped.

Atop the stars leading to the cathedral, bathed in the soft street lights and the angelic song of the choir, facing each other for what seemed to be a serious conversation from the way Yuuri's eyes avoided looking straight at him. Victor wanted to step closer, bring Yuuri's chin up and smile at him, ease his worries, put his heart back into safety, but Yuuri was purposefully standing away and it was not Victor's place to break the invisible barrier he'd put there.

So he waited. Until Yuuri was ready. He would always wait until–

"I–" Yuuri finally started, reaching for Victor's hand, which was given freely. "I couldn't think of anything better."

Gentle fingers pulled off Victor's glove, the cold air brushing over his skin, but Victor's eyes were focused on Yuuri's face – his shyly flushed cheeks and glowing eyes, warm and tender, almost on the verge of overwhelmed tears.

Victor wanted to kiss him. Hug him. Keep him close–

Something cold touched his skin and he looked down.

"It's for good luck," Yuuri explained, his voice trembling like his hand did as he pushed a golden band up to sit on Victor's finger.

Victor's own hand shook in the gentle hold of Yuuri's hands. His heart close to bursting, eyes welling up with tears, throat tight with the unbidden joy that he could not swallow long enough to form words, Victor shut down briefly.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to marry Yuuri right there, on those steps, with this choir singing, on this winter day before the Grand Prix Finals, right then and there, fast, soon, _now_.

But he breathed out the joy that sizzled in his veins and took in Yuuri's hesitant expression – he was waiting for a reply.

From the box Yuuri was still holding, Victor took the other ring – the second from a matching set of two, his heart whispered adoringly with a tender thump in his ribcage – and pulled off Yuuri's own glove to slide the ring on him, just like Yuuri had done before.

"Tomorrow," Victor said, voice overwhelmed and quiet. "Show me the skating you can be proudest of."

Yuuri's face, open and warm, flushed a beautiful shade of pink that Victor wanted to lose himself in over and over again, until the day he died.

 

 

 

 

"Do you know flower language, Yuuri?" Victor had asked, presenting him with a small composition of two white roses.

Yuuri's voice got stuck in his throat, eyes glued to the flowers: the buds looked like they were sprayed with fresh dew, skin made of snowflakes and glass, fragile beauty in each petal as they glistened and glowed in the yellow street lights. The stems were artfully entwined together, thorn-less, bound together with a white ribbon.

Yuuri swallowed, his throat dry.

When Victor had left him in the middle of the street to attend to some mysterious last-minute business, this was not what Yuuri had expected. And when Victor returned with the roses, smiling ever so gently, Yuuri could feel his heart stop, but it wasn't a bad thing. Oh no.

With a slightly trembling hand, Yuuri took the roses, careful, so careful. They seemed like a dream, like something that couldn't have a place in reality, something that was not meant for him, never him.

Victor was waiting for his reply, so Yuuri forced a raspy, "A little," out of his throat, still unable to speak.

"Do you know what these roses mean?" Victor asked then, and Yuuri's chest tightened.

It was hard to breathe, even harder to think.

Did he know...?

Yuuri kept looking down at the roses.

"White roses in general stand for innocence, purity, reverence, and..." Victor was explaining, taking his silence for a no, but Yuuri knew this. Oh, _he knew_. "...happy love."

Cold fingers – Victor must have forgotten to put his gloves back on – touched Yuuri's chin and he looked up without much prompting. His heart hammered inside his chest, expectant.

He knew what was coming. He knew.

Did he want to hear it? To hear Victor say it? To make it real?

"But two of them, like this," Victor nodded to the roses Yuuri was holding, "mean something much more special. I know you said those rings were a good luck charm, but... would you marry me, Yuuri?"

The tears came without warning.

One second Yuuri was looking into Victor's sincere, hopeful eyes, and the next everything was blurry and Victor's face washed away with worry. Before he could change his mind, before Victor could misunderstand his reason for crying, before the world could catch up to the here and now, Yuuri pushed himself into Victor's arms, holding him close, closer, tight.

"Yes," he whispered wetly over a muffled sob. _God, yes_. "If you'll have me."

Victor tightened his hold on him, cradling him against his chest, as a breath of relief left him a little limp in Yuuri's arms.

"I wouldn't want anyone else."

 

 

 

 

"You did good," the roses said, standing in a small vase on the table in their hotel room.

"We're happy for you," they told him every time he looked into the white flower crowns, his heart swelling, eyes bright, breath a little caught.

And Victor smiled, glad and grateful.

"Thank you," he said back.

To the roses, and the person who taught him to speak their language.

 

 

 

 

Calm was deceiving.

Calm was the interlude of the storm, he should've realized.

Calm was not something he knew how to handle.

Victor kissed his ring, his eyes smiling, trusting, believing in him. His hand was warm despite the chill of the arena and Yuuri smiled back.

He was calm. He could do it.

_He didn't._

 

 

 

 

Sometimes watching was harder than competing, Victor realized as he watched Yuuri collapse to his knees at the centre of the rink. The lights were still on him, the audience was cheering, but the way Yuuri's shoulders shook with bitter, quiet sobs was enough to tell Victor exactly what went wrong.

Yuuri had been calm.

He'd known he could do his best.

And yet, he hadn't.

His body, presentation, emotions, they hadn't aligned with the vision of the performance he'd had in his mind and he'd crashed from the height of expectation into a pit of unfulfilled potential.

There had been nothing wrong with him. He'd done well.

But not as well as he'd aspired to do.

And that made all the difference.

 

 

 

 

"Let's end this," Yuuri said.

 

 

 

 

All it took to rip the happiness out of Victor's heart was one sentence, as if he was some fragile piece of glass easily crushed into dust. Cold, unforgiving claws of despair sunk into his flesh, the joy and elation seeping out of the wounds golden like ichor, the blood of the gods, leaving him mortal and vulnerable once more.

But not dead. Never dead. _That_ would be too much mercy for him.

 

 

 

 

He went about it the wrong way, Yuuri realized that. He could see it in the slump of Victor's shoulders, in the mournful and serious set of Victor's jaw, in the puffy eyes – red and swollen from crying and the lack of sleep, much like his own.

He should've handled it differently, Yuuri knew. He never meant to hurt Victor like this, but... It was for the best.

The world needed Victor Nikiforov.

Yuuri needed him, too, but he couldn't be selfish anymore.

His time was up. The clock chimed midnight and the fantasy was unravelling itself to leave him in the tattered wreck of his skating career. The prince who has been holding his hand though it all now had to return to his castle.

Victor's place was on the ice.

And Yuuri... he would not hold him back. He couldn't.

 

 

 

 

It was not the first time Victor noticed it, but as always it took him by surprise – Yuuri could be so incredibly selfish. Subtle and ingrained deeply in his anxiety, it was not something that showed up often, but once it reared its ugly head, it brought down entire worlds with it.

It did so to Victor's.

His world crashed and burned, leaving only charred debris under his feet.

He looked at Yuuri, who was warming up next to him, quiet and focused. They haven't spoken much since yesterday. Only single, stilted words passed between them as they got ready, since neither of them wanted to let the emotions rule them right before the competition.

It hurt.

Frankly, Victor wasn't sure where they stood anymore.

Yuuri's ring was still on his finger, and so was Victor's, but Yuuri's back was turned to him, his eyes avoiding Victor's face, his jaw tense as if he was holding back another flood of hurtful words.

Victor looked away.

It hurt. It throbbed. Vinegar and salt on an open wound.

The pain was hard to put aside in order to focus on the competition, but Victor could do it. Shrug it off as if it wasn't him that was going through it, as if he was only a spectator in someone else's show.

The anger, however? That he couldn't let go of.

 

 

 

 

He never meant for it to go this far.

Victor's face still looked pinched when Yuuri took to the ice. His brows creased, his lips pursed, his eyes unfocused and laden with sadness; Victor didn't look like he wanted to see him skate. He forced on a smile, touched Yuuri's hand, and pretended – pretended it was all okay, that they were fine, that nothing has changed.

"You can win gold, Yuuri," he said.

Yuuri wanted to snort.

Victor was putting on a mask, hiding his real feelings to nurture Yuuri's own, to give him everything he needed at the cost to himself.

Yuuri hated it.

"You said before that you want to stay true to yourself, didn't you?" Yuuri snapped, his hand clenching on Victor's almost on its own. "Don't suddenly try to sound like a proper coach now, it's not like you."

And it wasn't.

This was not the Victor Yuuri wanted to see. As if his words snapped Victor out of it, his mouth set in a serious line.

"Yuuri, listen to me," Victor said, voice demanding attention. "I took a break to coach you after winning my fifth title, so how is it possible that you haven't won a single gold medal yet?"

Eyes suddenly wide, Yuuri lifted his head.

Like a spell, the fakeness dropped off of Victor, slid down his shoulders in a waterfall of Yuuri's relief and he was _his_ Victor again: raw and real, unhappy and moody and harsh with his criticism.

"How much longer are you going to be warming up?"

And this, it was good.

This was the Victor– _Yuuri's_ Victor.

"I really want to kiss a gold medal," Victor whined in the end, pulling Yuuri in for a hug, and Yuuri went along with it, gladly, his heart settling into a rhythm that sung a song of Victor's name – of gold and ice, and two mutually resonating souls that sound like one.

 

 

 

 

Victor didn't want to let go of Yuuri's hand, but when they called his name over the speakers, Yuuri's shoulders stopped shaking. He shifted away from Victor's arms, leaving him alone at the side of the rink, separated from him by a physical barrier, and only that one.

Unable to look away, Victor watched.

Unable to breathe, Victor watched.

Unable to stop the tears from blurring his vision, Victor watched.

And Yuuri, the boy who struggled with confidence, the boy who snatched Victor's heart with his skating, and then snatched it again with his soul, that same Yuuri Katsuki, he reached for the stars in the silent plea that Victor heard as loud as the voice screaming in his chest: " _Let it last_."

It was only fair that Yuuri broke his world record, Victor thought to himself, as a smile took to his lips, and his arms came around Yuuri. He deserved it.

Victor was happy.

He truly was.

And yet...

Something he had long since forgotten, a dormant feeling, nostalgic and filled with longing, returned to him as he sat in the kiss and cry, staring at Yuuri's score. He thought it'd died, believed it was gone, but there it was again, lifting itself from the ashes of the past, free and unbound – his competitive spirit that once again lit up with the flame of want as if it had only been waiting for someone like Yuuri all this time.

 

 

 

 

"I'm sorry it's not gold," Yuuri said, slightly ashamed to present Victor with silver after all they've gone through, after so many months of training, after Victor had sacrificed so much to make it gold.

Victor just smiled at him like he did that first time he told Yuuri to get off his high horse, and said: "I don't feel like kissing it unless it's gold."

And Yuuri had never loved him more than he did in that single moment.

But then, when Victor put the medal around his neck and smiling, that soft, almost on the verge of tears, lovely smile that ringed playful, but stayed gentle nonetheless, and told him, "I'll need you to become a five-time world champion or it just won't be fair," Yuuri thought:

_Ah, no. This is the one and the only._

 

 

 

 

"Stay," Yuuri had told him. "I'll be right back, I just need to clear my head a bit."

And Victor had stayed.

And waited.

And blinked in surprise when Yuuri returned with a bouquet full of roses in his arms.

Yuuri's hands were wrapped around the flowers, nervous, slightly trembling, and he avoided looking straight at Victor until he took a few deep breaths. Courage gathered tight to his skin like an armour that was meant to pave the way for the words he wished to speak, Yuuri smiled at Victor – a shaky, fragile smile that Victor wanted to cup in his hands and protect till his dying breath.

"I gave you a red rose after I first saw you perform," Yuuri said, taking a single red rose from the bouquet, which Victor now noticed wasn't a bouquet at all.

It was just a bunch of roses, all different colours, held tightly in Yuuri's tight grip. They seemed to be separate, but still all part of a greater whole that Victor couldn't divine, until...

"It was the Junior World Championships, you won gold," Yuuri explained. "It was the first one I gave you."

His own hand trembled when Victor took the rose from Yuuri's hand, his memory supplying a very similar rose, petals dark with spilled wine, majestic and beautiful, but now wilted and iron-pressed into the scrapbook he'd left forgotten in his abandoned flat in St. Petersburg.

"I gave you a pink rose next," Yuuri said, picking a pink rose from the bunch and giving that to Victor as well. "I realized that red roses were romantic and it wasn't what I wanted to convey, so I settled for pink."

There was a blush on Yuuri's cheeks, gorgeous, full, wrapping his face with warmth that Victor could feel matched the one engulfing his heart.

"Pink roses are a sign of appreciation, admiration," Yuuri continued, lifting his eyes to gaze into Victor's and taking Victor's breath away. "And Victor, I was then and forever will be grateful for all you've done for the world, and me. Thank you."

Holding two roses, Victor's mind was swimming. _Was this...?_

"I sent you a peach rose next," Yuuri smiled down at the rose before handing it to Victor. "A sign of inspiration, because you've always been mine, and you never stopped inspiring me."

Was Yuuri really...?

"Light pink was next."

The rose was as beautiful as the one Victor got all those years back, the first one that–

"I added the first card to it, because you were just too incredible on the ice in that performance. The Lilac Fairy was–"

"You make the ice the most beautiful place in the world," Victor whispered, staring at the rose as he remembered the writing he reread for days on end.

"You do," Yuuri agreed, not even an ounce of shame in his voice. Victor's cheeks flushed.

Yuuri... He really was–

"I gave you an orange one after that," Yuuri said, giving Victor exactly that. "You put a picture of it on Instagram, I saw. You don't even know how much seeing it did to motivate me to do my hardest. Last year, when I qualified for the GPF for the first time... it was because of what you've given to me."

Victor lifted his free hand up to his face, tears welling in his eyes, hot, happy, honest. Yuuri was smiling, his face soft and warm, his gaze full of love, unbidden, overwhelming, yet still shy, but welcoming him with open arms.

And all Victor wanted was to sink into them.

But he didn't.

Yuuri's hands weren't empty yet.

"I gave you a bouquet of these," Yuuri said next, holding out a blue and a black rose to Victor, who unlike the first time, took them and held them precariously, looking at Yuuri instead of the roses, waiting for an explanation, a reply to all the whys he'd used to ask a year ago. "After the Finals I was lost. I was considering retirement, you know that."

Yuuri's face pinched, but he pushed up his glasses and forged on:

"You were everything I aspired to be, but as I was I knew I would never be enough. You were the unattainable goal that I didn't have the confidence to pursue anymore, and that's why I decided to stop. I'm sorry, I was a coward."

Victor wanted to say something. Maybe to deny it, maybe confirm it and tell Yuuri that even if he'd been a coward _it was fine, everything was okay now, they made it so it didn't matter_ , but Yuuri still had one rose left.

He offered it to Victor.

"I know what red roses mean now and with that knowledge I give this one to you," Yuuri said, stepping closer to Victor, and when Victor reached to take the flower, Yuuri didn't let go. They held onto it together, eyes locked, hearts attuned, souls moulding together, and _Victor breathed_.

"I love you with my whole heart, Victor," Yuuri was saying again, his voice quieter, but radiant, and filling the room with life. "I always have. Thank you for existing and being in my life."

There were tears rolling down his cheeks, Victor knew.

There were tears in Yuuri's eyes, spilling out as well, Victor could see.

And he laughed, a wet, sniffling laugh that made Yuuri's lips curve into a precious smile.

"All those roses... it was really you?" Victor asked, believing him fully, but needing to hear it from Yuuri once more.

"Yes," Yuuri admitted. "I'm sorry I was too much of a coward to sign the notes."

" _Oh, Yuuri_..."

 

 

 

 

Yurio was scowling at them from the sidelines.

Yuuri didn't care.

He looked at Victor at his side, dressed in his new exhibition costume, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, but smiling a blinding, happy smile. Calm washed over Yuuri like never before, just from the sight of that smile.

"Did you get into another fight?" Yurio asked. "You both look like shit."

Victor laughed, a sound so light, Yuuri could almost feel it lift him in the air.

"Of course not, I would never fight with my Yuuri!"

"Sometimes people cry when they are happy, too, Yurio," Yuuri explained with a fond smile touching his lips.

Yurio snorted. "Weak people, you mean."

And Yuuri let it be, because if this happiness, this overbearing joy and calm were a sign of his weakness, then by all means he was fine being weak.

 

 

 

 

A rose, each week a different one, stood in the small vase inside the trophy case in their St. Petersburg apartment, one of many that have been, and one of many that still will be, telling a short story of two people who didn't have the right words, but wove a life together from what they did have – patience, friendship, hard work and love that kept them linked, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death does them part.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the beautiful art that is included here is a commission I ordered from [@baroque-kun](https://baroque-kun.tumblr.com/)! it's beautiful and I'm absolutely in love with how magical it made that scene look ahhhh <3 please go send them some love if you liked it too! 
> 
> so, I guess, once again -- merry vicmas! ♥️


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